Plights Of A King
by ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: As Théoden's soul wanders aimlessly around the battlefield, he realizes that he is just that, a forgotten soldier among a sea of dead bodies. Like Faramir said: "War will make corpses of us all..."


**_Not too sure where this came from (probably from the awful day I had at Uni.) but it wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote this... Hopefully it's not too horrible._**

"_Please"_ Théoden begged, seeing the solid ground rising up to meet his broken body _"Not like this."_

His little nephew was still out there, on the battlefield, Eomer was still fighting. He needed his Uncle, Théoden couldn't leave yet, why he'd barely been granted life by Gandalf the White that it was being ripped away from him. No… It was too early, he still needed to watch over his blonde boy, draw breath for him, but he could see the light dimming down, a fuzzy blackness gradually covering his eyes. No, he was being called to the halls of his ancestors, where he would be reunited with his father and his young son, Théodred, whom had been torn away from him before even having the chance to fully experience life.

As air became increasingly difficult to direct to his lungs, he could feel the Snowmane's crushing weight gradually diminishing, as if the loyal horse were being lifted from his broken and battered armor. He couldn't make out anything anymore, the rushing of horses, battle cries and the clash of steel against steel mixing into a dull sound in the distance, the fading beat of his own heart drowning them completely. As Théoden felt himself loose all form of weight, essence separating itself from the dying body, the king could almost embrace the opening of the halls his fathers would be offering him, and so the tired Uncle closed his eyes, accepting that his book had ended here and ready to meet his long since departed family once again. But his soul never left its place, it was still rooted to the ground, only a few inches away from Snowmane and what remained of Théoden's gradually forming corpse. The blonde opened his eyes, trying to figure out what could possibly be the weight that kept him rooted here, and it soon remembered its purpose.

Before being a king, a leader or even a warrior, Théoden was also an uncle, and even if he was going to disappear any moment now, his last moments, he knew, were to be looking over his niece, his little Eowyn. With a renewed purpose, the blonde uncle stepped through the dead and dying, trying not to look down into faces that had been too young to meet their end, as he searched the ground beneath his feet, trying to accept that those who had fallen were now in a better place.

How long did it take, he didn't know, after all the soul is no good judge of time, but Théoden eventually managed to single out his precious little girl, among the countless fighters who would succumb, allow Death to whisk them away, without ever having the honor of being named. There she was, fallen, sword at her side and steel helmet having long since lost its purpose. Eomer and the little hobbit were next to her, the tears on their faces a mix of joy and sadness. But she was breathing, she'd survived, she was alive. The knowledge of the fact made the uncle smile, were she to see another day, any blood that had been his body may have lost had been worth it.

But the smile vanished after a while. As Eomer took his sister in his arms, offering her the comfort she was in need of, he felt a hole dig itself in his chest, an unspeakable feeling emerging that he could not put a name on. Théoden watched, as the two young ones tightened their grip around each other, letting their tears of relief speak for their silent lips and give a voice to their feelings, sensing a sharp pain flourish throughout his body. When he gazed longingly at the three of them as the little hobbit was accepted in the gesture, Théoden's soul ached, wishing it could somehow reach the small family, that his immaterial figure could somehow still offer something to the souls who meant the world to him. A shaking hand reached out, and through a now blurred vision, the king could make out his own worn, scarred digits brushing against the golden hair of his niece, desperately wishing she could acknowledge him, allow him to share this moment with her, but Théoden was never seen, no eyes ever recognized his presence, no soul ever reached out for him.

Why… Why did Théoden have to be left behind when the others were either gone or moving on? What was holding him back from being finally reunited with those he knew awaited his arrival in the halls of his fathers? He could no longer offer support and guidance to those who still lived, he could no longer change the course of what was being decided for the race of men, he could no longer offer anything to the world that had closed off to him.

As much as he wished to bring his little niece into his arms, he could not. A spirit, being devoid of any form of material body, would not be able to offer the touch she would be craving, a soul was not enough to soothe the suffering of the living, a willing heart could not ease the pains of a broken body.

And what about him? What had become of his own body? Was anyone at his side, trying maybe to ease his last moments, to facilitate his passing and acceptance of the great chasm known as Death? Eager to escape the gradually building pain in his chest, witnessing those being brought together by the kind hands of Fate, Théoden trudged through the countless bodies, making his way to the place where he had met his Maker.

Sure enough, there he was, broken remains still trapped beneath Snowmane's weight. Even in death, the proud steed had remained loyal. While the thought was meant to be an encouraging one, it tore at his soul. Théoden's only companion, only mourning comrade was his ever faithful horse. Nobody was there, nobody had sought out their king and brother in arms. The once proud warrior could no longer hold up his shaking knees, crashing down next to what was to be the only remembrance the world would ever have of him, the only trace he'd leave behind: a shattered corpse, a cadaver that would soon become a feast for crows and lay forgotten by all, in the midst of blood and death.

He'd never been a particularly light hearted man, he could expect being forgotten by some, knowing an individual soul could never win everyone's favors. Having grown-up under a stern eye, with the knowledge that someday, he'd have the responsibility of a crown upon his head, Théoden had never been allowed much lenience, even if, over the years, he'd learnt that the rule had been only there in the hopes' that it would shape him into a better king. As a child, he may have wished for a small display of affection, anything to prove that he was still a boy, a young soul filled with dreams and emotions, and not a role, a character who needed to hide it's feelings to the world. Being a king meant that Théoden was supposed to be able to stand up for those he cared for, be strong for those who looked up to him as an uncle, as a king, or even as a friend. But how could people look up to a crumbling ruler? What faith could the lost have in a king who could no longer trust in his own capabilities? Surely if he were a competent monarch, his body would not be laying alone, smashed under Snowmane's mass?

He hadn't registered the fact that he'd fallen again, not until Théoden realized he was crawling, reaching out to what was left of him with a shaking hand. Crouching down next to his body, the king shed his mask, shed the skin he'd grown up in, and instead, the blonde found he was scared, he was still dying despite the absence of pain, he was lonely, an only body in a sea of strangers, strangers who'd died for him. The knowledge of the fact made him sick.

As the invisible crown that had still lingered upon his golden hair crumbled, Théoden felt himself regress, felt the soul of a five year-old child bloom in his chest, as it's fears took over what little control he was letting escape. The anxious youth was taking hold of his feelings, crushing what little resolve Théoden had managed to preserve until now, as he heard the infant's cry, sobbing out how lonely it was, wishing that a familiar face would come for it. But nothing ever happened, and the grown man could feel the tears slowly roll down the side of his cheek, realizing he'd allowed himself to break, no longer being able to master his own sorrows.

The fallen king stayed there, on his knees, body wracked with uncontrollable sobs for what felt like hours, days even, needing to protect itself from isolation forced upon his soul, trying to block out the pain he was bound to feel by releasing the suffering he was feeling inside. The tears fell, but no mother's gentle hand came to wipe them away, the whimpers only loud enough for his own body to hear were never dulled down by a familiar face, the growing reclusion closing in around the soul never pushed away by any light. Théoden was alone, forsaken by those he loved and unable to reach out to those whom he held on to dearly, to those whom he valued more worthy than life itself.

As the light slowly faded from the once blue eyes, watching as those who were still granted life continued on, went about tending to those who still drew breath, Théoden felt the tiny childish longing he'd stored away in the hopes that someone might come for him shatter, like a strong flower would whither in the ruthless winter. The broken uncles' soul lost what little faith it had recently found as the light within the soul diminished, no longer being able to bear being alone. As Théoden gave up hope, despair having taken over the emotions he was capable of expressing in a distant past, the king allowed sorrow to feast upon his remains, dragging him down mercilessly and extinguishing what tiny light may once have been there.


End file.
